


The spirit is indeed willing,

by maupin



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4088887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maupin/pseuds/maupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>but the flesh is weak. Keep watch and pray, so that you will not give in to temptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The spirit is indeed willing,

You feel her ragged breathing on your neck and it is grotesque and wild and visceral, so vile it is close to holy. There is an ethereal quality in all that is devilish, is there not, sweetness? And oh, yes, darling, you're _sure_ of it when her groaning resounds remarkably like angelic strings against the hollow of your throat. Her calloused fingers burn against your collarbone and the teeth ripping your neck pull you away while keeping you down, down to earth, down your bed, under her tummy.

You feel her nose nuzzling against your ear and it’s an act of genuine affection drowned out by _volúpia_ , the very _âmago_ of attraction, a show of fleeting, gentle endearment veiling the impairment of once virginal integrity and severe corruption of nymph-like flesh. Her voice is husky and her whispers cut you through; she turns you around and you feel lips wearing out your skin and tongue going through your insides, spreading your guts apart and sucking on a specific spot that makes your legs kick up.

Her canines rip away your liver and it finally hits you as the organ of passion, _per se_ , when she has it in between her teeth and grins against throat tearing moans that make you taste the blood she is drinking from. She gets off on your self-destruction. Her fingers slam in and the movement synchronizes with the pumping of your heart, so sound it cuts through your breast and swells up until it is just right where she can reach it. She grabs it and squeezes, tugging at your heartstrings, ripping through all muscle so that your lungs give in for just a second before puffing out air again –puffing in, puffing out, puffing in- and then you cannot breathe anymore.

She digs her nails through your stomach and drags them slowly down your intestines and you feel the nausea building up to your lips until it comes out dripping; you can almost taste her satisfaction in it as she stares you down, eats you up. The friction is unbearable, and she is as sweet as honey while she rips you apart and it is not as if anything matters besides this growing feeling that you are going to die, die, die and your curls will melt against her bones and whimpers will become sea that inundates skull until all she can hear is your sighing as it comes out in drops. 

She is going on raw, one hand wrapped around your neck and you are choking on overflowing fluid, coughing up blood, torso retreating and expanding at a steady drum: _badump, badump, badump_. Now she is poking your waist bone with her nose, clinging to your hips, and the steady drumming gives way to non-rhythmic pleading for her to go on, yes, _please_. Your fingers dangle around strings of her hair, clutching to her head as if it is the only thing solid enough to keep your body away from finally giving into her merciless attempt of destroying it.

She hums and smiles with bloodstained teeth against the corpse she has made out of you and it feels pointless to postpone your incoming corruption any longer. Her hand feels feather light while it wrecks your sanctity and at this point, it is just enough: you would not have it any other way than by hers. You see fire and stars for just a second as your descent from heaven to stratosphere to dirty ground hits you hard. You have horns for a halo and no more wings to flap now, but it feels like a biblical struggle to mind when she's staring at you as she would were you a patron saint. 

She pulls you back with the most whisper-soft, unbearably light kiss against temple and flutters her eyelashes as if in angel’s flight, giggling at your disorientation, and you find there is plenitude in falling from grace. Her arms feel more like home than Heaven ever did and you might just be all right with tripping your way out of father's favor. 


End file.
